


A Little Fault's a Bitter Sting

by Fox



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-11-15
Updated: 2001-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-07 03:10:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox/pseuds/Fox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Blair learn who their friends are when a local veterans' organization is threatened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Fault's a Bitter Sting

**Author's Note:**

> I am not now, nor have I ever been, Pet Fly productions.

"O Conscience, upright and stainless, how bitter a sting to thee is a little fault!"  
          Dante, _Purgatorio_

* * *

Jim Ellison leaned back in his chair and tossed a crumpled piece of paper meditatively toward the ceiling. He caught it neatly, tossed it up again, and swatted it with a flick of his wrist across the bullpen, where it hit Megan Connor between the eyes and knocked her glasses askew on her nose.

She looked up from the form she was filling out. "Something you needed, Detective?"

"I'm afraid you're not the girl to give it to me, Inspector," Jim returned with a wink and a grin. Megan smiled and lobbed his paper missile back at him so he could annoy someone else with it. "I'm just _bored_. Is anyone else bored?" he asked, sitting up and addressing the entire Major Crime division. A chorus of casual affirmatives and a couple of raised hands greeted his question. "Man, this always happens," Jim went on. "Guys downstairs put 'em all away at Halloween, and what do we have? Next year, remind me to take my vacation some time between Halloween and Thanksgiving. If I'm going to be doing nothing, I can be surfing while I'm at it."

"We should get Narc up here and go three-on-three in the break room," Henri Brown offered. "Trash can basketball. Whataya say, Jim? I'd bet on you and me and Rafe over any three guys they got."

"I'd bet on Connor and me and Sandburg," Jim said, throwing his paper ball at Rafe's head, "but otherwise, not a bad idea."

"Sandburg isn't here," Brown began --

And suddenly everyone in the room looked busy as Simon Banks strode in. "Nicely done, everybody," he said as he crossed to his office and threw his coat and umbrella inside. "Your reaction time's coming along nicely. But you're all off the hook. Listen up.

"I've just come from a meeting with the chief and the other captains. As a gesture of good will, or an initiative to help clean up the city, or some damn thing, the mayor's got it in her head to show the citizens a picture of the united face of Cascade's civil service. She's including us, the fire department, the city council, public works, park and rec, basically everyone whose paycheck says City of Cascade, and -- heh -- strongly encouraging all of us to take part in the Veterans Day parade."

The chorus this time was of loud groans. "I know, I know," Simon said, waving a hand for silence. "But at least it's not one of those competitive parades the fire department's always holding. I'm here to say, officially --" he consulted a note card, then put it back in his pocket -- "that it would be greatly appreciated by me, the Chief of Detectives, the Chief of Police, the city council, and the mayor of Cascade if as many of you as possible would plan to march in the parade. As a gesture both of honor to the veterans and of commitment to the people. Demonstrate that you're proud to be citizens of the city of Cascade, the state of Washington, and the United States of America." He coughed. "Connor, you're obviously excused, if you'd prefer."

"Thanks, Captain, but this sort of sounds like fun."

Simon gave her a tight smile. "And Jim, if you'd rather march with the VFW than with us, we'll --"

"I'm not a member of the VFW, sir." Jim carefully kept his voice calm and his breath even; he saw no need to make his distaste for the local chapter of the Veterans of Foreign Wars public knowledge.

"Fine, then. Uh, anyone with a good reason not to be marching should let me know by the end of the week; otherwise, I'll expect to see you on Saturday at a meeting-point to be announced. Try to find a lapel pin or something with stars and stripes on it if you can, and this calls for full dress uniform, people. Okay, get back to work -- or whatever the hell is going on in here this afternoon." Simon retreated into his office and shut the door. Jim watched it close, remembering ...

"So, Jim, you in?" Brown asked.

"Huh?" Jim blinked and looked at his friend.

"Break room? Trash can basketball? Three-on-three with Narcotics?" Brown waved a hand in front of Jim's face. "Where you been, man?"

"Uh ... sorry, H," said Jim, distracted. "I have to go meet Sandburg. Looks like you and Megan are stuck with Rafe." He heard the team's laughter as he gathered his things and left the bullpen, but his mind was already several steps ahead. Between them, he and Sandburg could surely come up with a mayor-proof reason why he shouldn't march in that parade.

It had been a fairly lame excuse; he didn't _have_ to meet Sandburg at the university, but the words had fallen easily from his lips and it was as plausible a line as any. They might have had dinner plans, or the Volvo might have been in the shop, or any one of a hundred things might have been true -- hardly anybody ever asked for details any more, and Jim never offered. None of their business, he told himself. I'm off the clock.

Almost immediately, he seemed to hear Sandburg's indulgent, half-scolding-half-joking voice in his mind, the thousands of times Sandburg had sighed patiently and applied himself to easing Jim's relationship with the rest of the world. _They're your friends, Jim. It's called small talk, Jim. They know the truth, Jim, and they like you anyway._

So okay, Jim thought, it wouldn't have killed me to phrase it as I'd like to go meet Sandburg. Mental note for next time.

The undergraduates were suffering through the tail end of midterms, and the university was a tense place. Every doorway was crowded with nineteen-year-old kids sucking down Mountain Dew and Marlboro Lights and peering out from under baseball caps to highlight strings of words in their battered, rain-spattered spiral notebooks. The older students were a shade more relaxed, but nothing could convince a freshman of the relative importance of college exams; if a hundred-level midterm does this to you, Jim wanted to call out, what are you going to do when you're facing a three-hour final in a senior seminar? Instead, he stepped around the puddles and through the pack of smokers outside the doors of Hargrove Hall, and made his way along the corridors to the main office of the Department of Anthropology.

"Excuse me." The work-study kid at the desk looked up from a fat, dog-eared textbook. "I'm looking for Blair Sandburg. Any idea where I might find him?"

"Um ... " The kid turned and flipped through a series of printouts on a stand next to his phone. "How do you spell that?"

"He's a graduate student," Jim began, aware that this didn't answer the question.

"Oh, wait, Sandburg," the kid said, nodding. "Yeah, he's not teaching this semester."

Jim smiled pleasantly and counted to six. "I know that."

"I only have schedules for the teaching fellows. Sorry."

"I just thought you might have seen him," Jim said.

The kid shook his head and shrugged. "Sorry," he said again.

"Thanks anyway."

Jim turned away from the desk and stood for a minute, looking at the department bulletin board and wondering what to do next. There were ads for summer programs, notices of conferences and calls for papers, here and there a job posting -- surrounded by tear-off photocopies of moving sales, offers to swap language lessons, and discount air fares. He gave his head a shake. He ratcheted up his hearing and found Sandburg wrapping up a meeting with -- Jim forgot her name, but with one of the professors on his dissertation committee. "See, that's the great thing, the difference between just closed societies and _secret_ societies," Sandburg was saying, and the professor was nodding and saying mm-hmm. Jim smiled.

He found the office with no trouble, and he leaned against the wall on the other side of the hall at the angle where he'd be able to see Blair first when the door opened. He didn't have long to wait; soon the handle turned and the door opened, but Sandburg didn't exit immediately. He swung the door open and held it there with his foot as he shoved his books and his drafts into his backpack, still facing the professor. "So that'll take care of it?" he asked. "Or should I --"

"I think you see my point, Blair -- just tighten up that paragraph and close the gap in the argument for the other thing, and that'll be fine. Eli'll probably have other ideas, but you just send him this way -- you have me on this committee for a reason, right? I do know a couple of things he doesn't." There was a smirk in her voice.

"Great! Thanks very much," Sandburg said. "I'll be out of town for a few days next month, but I'll be sure to give a holler before the end of the semester. So long." He pulled the door shut and turned, and the genuine smile he'd given the professor turned into a full-out grin when he saw Jim. "Hey! I wasn't expecting to see you here. What's up?"

"A lot of nothing," Jim answered, cuffing the back of Sandburg's head just to get the scent of that hair on his hand. "That sounded like a good meeting."

"It was a great meeting." The old familiar bounce was back in his step. "I spoke to Hendrick this morning, and he was, like, _so_ jazzed about where this is going, and I guess you heard Johansen only recommended slight changes, and I'll take it to Stoddard some time next week or so, and I'm trucking right along. I've got one more point to make, a sweet little chapter at the end, and then I'll wrap it up in a conclusion, and then I'll book a room and defend the thing and -- Jesus, Jim, I could have this thing in the bag by the spring!" Sandburg gave the air a victory punch.

"Blair Sandburg, Ph.D.," Jim said, trying the words on for style.

Blair looked at him with crazed eyes, then grabbed him by the arm and shoved him through the nearest door.

It's a storage room, Jim thought, catching a noseful of the scent of glass cleaner before Sandburg was on him, hands in his hair, one leg scrabbling for a secure hook around the back of his knee. His kiss was like an order, like a command, and something in the back of Jim's mind, the part of his consciousness that had been through basic training, said Sir, yes sir! and wrapped his arms around Sandburg's back and hauled him even closer.

Blair moaned when Jim stroked the roof of his mouth with his tongue, and when Jim turned his attention solely to Blair's lower lip, worrying it between his teeth like a cherry stem, Blair pushed back against his shoulders, trying to get Jim braced against something so he could climb up higher and hang on. Jim hit his head against a shelf, which he realized when Blair whispered "Sorry" on the way around his jaw to bite his neck. He brought Blair's free hand up so he could lick the wrist. Blair's knees wobbled. Jim nibbled at the pulse point there until Blair whimpered and left his neck for another kiss, this one gentler than the one before, the next one gentler yet. Soon they were standing quite still, comfortable in each other's arms, kissing slowly with the ease of coasting in neutral. "I think," said Sandburg, between kisses, "it's probably best if you don't say that again."

"Hmm," Jim answered. "I'll take that under advisement. I wasn't altogether displeased with the results."

He could feel Sandburg's smile. "We should get out of here, though, huh," he said.

Out of the closet, Jim thought, in spite of himself. He dropped his head back, conceding defeat to the irony of the situation. The shelf was still there; this time he felt it. "Ow."

"Careful," Blair said.

"Yeah. Thanks. Listen, speaking of --"

Sandburg had opened the door. Jim followed him back out into the hall. "Speaking of what, Jim?"

"Nothing. It can wait until we get home."

Simon opened the door first thing the next morning to bellow for them, but before he could even get a good breath, Jim had started toward the office. "Got a minute, Captain?" he asked, as he and Sandburg both took their usual places.

Simon blinked at him. "_Captain_? God, Jim, you're not in some kind of trouble, are you?"

Jim waved away Simon's concern. "Nah, nothing like that. I just wanted to -- well, I wanted to come in and tell you something, but Sandburg thinks we ought to discuss it first."

"Figures." Simon gave Sandburg a not-unfriendly eye-roll. Sandburg grinned. "What's up?"

Jim took a breath. "Simon, I don't think I can march in this parade."

"What? What'll it be, too noisy or something? I thought you said you had that under control." Simon turned to Sandburg, ready to accuse him of letting his guide duties slide.

"No, no, that's not it," Jim said hastily. "I should have said I can't be seen marching in this parade."

"But Jim, you're the best detective in the department!" Simon exploded. "You have a better record than any other Cop of the Year before or since -- oh." He turned his cigar around in his fingers a few times. "I see. It's the publicity, isn't it -- Jim Ellison, Cop of the Year in ninety-whatever, was later associated with Blair Sandburg, the fraudulent anthropologist, and that whole thing will be dredged up again? I see your point -- and I guess you don't want to march either, Sandburg?"

Sandburg had sat forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees, and was now nodding approvingly. "That wasn't why, actually, but that's not bad. Jim, why didn't we think of that?"

"I don't know, but it's a good point. Think the mayor'll swallow it?" Jim pushed himself away from the wall he was leaning against.

"Oh, yeah, hook line and sinker, man." Sandburg rose and started toward the door. "Especially if you spin it so it's not about you, but about how you don't want to pull focus away from her efforts to unite the --"

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Simon interrupted in his Booming Voice of Fate mode. "Where do you think you're going? Get back here and sit down." They got back and sat. "So this isn't about the press conference and the fraud charge," Simon said conversationally. "Mind telling me what is going on?"

Jim glanced at Sandburg, then back at Simon. He coughed. "The thing is, Simon, I'm not a member of the VFW."

"So you mentioned yesterday." Simon poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Right. I'm also not a member of the VA, the CVL, or any other veterans' organization. I'm sure I don't have to explain why." Jim reached out and found Sandburg's hand, locking their fingers together.

Simon's brow was knit. "I'm sorry, but please do explain; your logic isn't clear to me. Were you a member of any of these groups before --" he made an inclusive gesture with his coffee cup -- "this?"

"I wasn't a member of the _army_ before this, Simon," Jim said quietly. "I mean, not before _this_," he clarified, waving a hand between himself and Sandburg, "but -- well, let's just say I was not asking and not telling way before that was in style."

"So you knew the rules going in."

"That's right, and I kept my mouth shut and did my job, and I got medals and citations and an honorable discharge. As far as the army was concerned, I was a first-rate soldier."

"And the veterans' groups don't have many requirements beyond that," Sandburg broke in. "The VFW obviously requires that you've served overseas, but as long as you weren't thrown out, dishonorable discharge, they're all supposed to let you in."

Simon rubbed his temples. "And you're about to tell me that's not always the case."

"Guy named Jerry Brandt came out about eight years ago," Jim nodded. "He was a career man, retired with a whole armful of awards, commendations, ribbons, you name it. And the minute he did, the VFW booted him. Flagrant violation of the guy's civil rights. A few people walked."

"The thing is," Sandburg chimed in again, leaning forward and stabbing the air with his hands, "these groups can probably qualify for status as a club, where they're allowed to make their own rules."

"Sandburg's right," Simon said, "which is something I bet you never thought you'd hear me say. I'm not saying it wasn't wrong for your friend to get kicked out of the VFW, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't illegal."

"Well, sure," Jim nodded. "If it had been illegal, someone could just have reported them, and they'd have paid a fine. People walk out and protest when the law doesn't provide a remedy for their situation."

"So what are you saying?" Simon leaned back and addressed the ceiling. "You don't want to march in the parade."

"No."

"Because you object to the VFW's policy on homosexuality."

"Yes."

"And it's occurred to you that if Jim Ellison doesn't march in the Veterans Day parade, people are going to wonder why."

"Yes."

"And what about you?" Simon turned to Blair.

"I'd, uh, rather not march either, to be honest, Simon," Sandburg said. "I didn't think that would be a problem -- I'm not the feather in the department's cap that Jim is, right?"

"No, you're right ... so if you don't march, that's no big deal. But if you both don't march, you don't think that's going to raise some eyebrows? What am I going to tell the mayor when she asks me why my best detective team is sitting the parade out together?"

"You could tell her the publicity thing you thought we were talking about," Jim offered.

"Oh, excellent. The press won't notice that at all, will they?" Simon was pacing now, back and forth behind his desk like an angry lion. "If you both stay away, you'll be lucky if _all_ they dig up is the fraud thing. At least one of you has to appear in this parade, or you'll have more attention than you ever wanted from our friends in the fourth estate."

"Simon, I've never marched in a Veterans Day parade before. I just want to keep doing that," Jim said. "I don't want to make a big deal out of this."

"But that's the whole point, Jim," Sandburg said, squeezing his hand. "Simon's saying the same thing I was saying before -- you _are_ a big deal. And the parade is a big deal, which isn't normally the case. So if you don't turn up for it, that'll be a _huge_ deal." He made an unhappy face. "But less huge if I'm at least there, right? I'll go, and you can stay out, if you want."

Jim shook his head. "No, no. Neither of us wants to march, but we'll get more negative attention if I don't go -- so I'll go, and you can stay home."

"Well, there's not much point in that, is there?" Sandburg laughed a little. "What message does it send if only half a gay couple protests a homophobic practice?"

"The point wasn't to send a public message, remember?" Jim smiled, tugging on a curl. "The point was to avoid participating in something we find distasteful. You shouldn't march if you don't want to."

"I'm still paid by the city," Blair said. "There's not a defensible reason for me to be the only one who doesn't march. I'll go." He dropped his forehead onto Jim's shoulder, dejected, and Jim slid a hand under the curls to massage the back of his neck.

"Okay, okay," Simon said, irritated. "Still my office, folks. Knock it off." He puffed air through his cheeks. "Look. We only got this memo from the mayor's office yesterday. If you'd had plans already, if you were going to be out of town, say, I wouldn't be able to cancel your leave to get you to march in this thing as a gesture. I don't say people wouldn't talk anyway, but --"

"You know, that's another thing," Blair said suddenly. "Why is there the automatic assumption that someone who --"

"Shut up, Sandburg. I don't say people wouldn't talk anyway, but out of town and not back in time for the parade is a lot less grist for the rumor mill than in town and not marching despite a specific request from the mayor. But those are the only circumstances I can think of where your not marching on Saturday would fly." He fixed them with a stern look and spoke slowly. "You see what I'm saying?"

Jim smiled. "I think we do, sir." He slapped his knees and got to his feet. "I think we see exactly what you're saying. Don't we, Chief?"

"Absolutely," Blair said with a grin, hopping from his chair. "Where did we say we were going this weekend, Simon?"

"Get out of here." Simon's smile bled through his scowl and gave him away. His phone rang, and he moved to answer it. "Back to work. Shoo."

"What's going on, guys?" Rafe asked a minute later, tossing a red rubber ball in the direction of the trash can by Jim's desk.

Jim caught it before it hit his coffee cup. "Not a thing, Rafe. What's going on with you?"

"We beat Narc in three-on-three after you left yesterday, Jim," Rafe said, rolling over in his desk chair.

"Are you serious?" Sandburg didn't bother to hide his incredulity.

"Of course I am!" Rafe protested.

"It was all Connor," Brown said.

"Ha, I figured," Jim laughed, looking over at Megan. She grinned and buffed her fingernails on her lapel. "What was the score?"

"Twenty-one to about three," Rafe said. "We're thinking of putting a league together. We'll take Homicide this afternoon, and Vice tomorrow --"

Suddenly, Simon flung his office door open and strode out into the center of the room. "Okay, listen up, people," he barked. "Party time's over. I've just had a conference call with Taggert and the mayor -- it seems someone's been threatening the Cascade Veterans League."

"Guess we didn't get all the punks put away at Halloween, eh, Ellison?" Brown called out.

"Well, we might have," Simon went on. "They said this didn't sound like your normal radical anti-military neo-socialist punk kids, like the ones who made all that trouble up in Seattle. That's why they brought Taggert in -- this is a bomb threat." Everyone sobered immediately; bomb threats were always taken completely seriously. "The caller has promised to detonate a couple of devices if some demands aren't met at Saturday's parade, so we're running to beat the clock, everybody. Ellison, Sandburg, take point. Get down to CVL and get talking. Rafe, Brown, back them up. Find some places where a guy could buy things to make bombs. Connor, Ramos, you're the anchor. Phone records. Start with the CVL's LUDs and follow everything -- find out who they've been calling, and then find out who else those people called, and get me dates and times for all of it. Let's do some detective work, people."

* * *

  
Fifteen minutes later, Blair followed Jim into the administrative office of the Cascade Veterans League. Their host was Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Davis, a squarely-built man of early middle age, dressed in a regular business suit. Blair realized several moments later that this looked incongruous to him because he'd been expecting a full uniform. "No, I'm retired, Mr. Sandburg," the colonel said when he mentioned it. "Cascade _Veterans_ League, after all."

"Right," Blair said with a smile. "I guess I thought once they had you, they had you, you know?" He made a pulling gesture with his fists.

The colonel laughed politely. "Well, no, not always. Coffee?" The offer was pro forma, and Jim and Blair both declined. "After all," Davis went on, "we didn't have Detective Ellison for long, did we?"

"No, I guess you didn't," Jim tried to laugh, taking a seat.

"And we don't have you on our roster, Detective," Davis said as he sat down himself. "Cascade's most famous veteran -- you could be an important influence in our organization."

"Yes, well, right now I have my hands full being an important influence over Cascade's criminal element," Jim demurred. "One of whom has been giving you some trouble -- what can you tell us about that threat? You took the call yourself?"

Davis sat up a little straighter; the pleasantries were over, and it was time for business. "Yes, at about nine-forty-five this morning. I called emergency right away."

"It's good that you did. Can you remember what the caller said?"

"He said he was tired of our propagandist mumbo-jumbo and it was time we started speaking for all veterans in the Cascade area. He said he'd be sending a list of demands to the offices here, and we're to apologize at the parade on Saturday for our part in the recent campaign and pledge to do better in the future. And he said if we don't do it, or if he doesn't believe us, we can expect some things to start blowing up. He didn't say what, or when."

"You getting all this?" Blair nodded in response to Jim's question, but didn't look up from where he was scribbling in his note pad. "What do you think the caller meant by 'propagandist mumbo-jumbo,' Colonel?"

"It's hard to say. Our political positions aren't universally embraced by all voters, of course. We endorse candidates who favor defense spending, for instance, which is always a touchy issue."

"Question of how much defense spending," Blair muttered before Jim shushed him.

"But in what way are your group's views not representative of the views of all Cascade's veterans?" Jim leaned back and propped his elbow on the arm of his chair.

"Well, I don't know, Detective." Davis leaned back in his own seat and crossed his legs, folding his hands in his lap. "The group's stated positions are certainly representative of the views of the majority of its registered members. But we can't very well represent the views of people who aren't members, now, can we?" He paused and turned to Blair, then glanced back at Jim. "Your own, for example."

Blair looked sharply at Jim; Jim's face had paled slightly, and his shoulders were tense. "That's right," he said smoothly.

"So our position might not be representative of your personal views. But that's hardly our fault, now, is it?"

"Maybe not. But maybe if I were a member, I'd still be in the minority and the group's position wouldn't represent me anyway." Jim gave a businesslike smile. "So that brings us around to the next question: can you think of anyone, anyone at all, whom you know to be dissatisfied with the League's recent political activity?"

Davis smiled indulgently. "Recent? Oh, let me think. Well, we never seem to have many friends around the university. Every so often some of the kids come down here and picket the place, post flyers, that kind of thing. They give us trouble when we're over meeting with the ROTC gang, too."

"But specifically, Colonel? Recently?"

"Hmm. Seems besides the college kids, we hear from the -- ah -- I can never keep up with the current terminology, I'm afraid. We hear from the gays a good deal."

"Do you." Ooh, he was cool. Blair saw the slight rise in Jim's eyebrow and heard the careful pitch of his voice daring the colonel to say something inflammatory, but he knew that was because of how well he already knew the arch of that brow and the timbre of that voice. He doubted Davis noticed anything at all. "And what -- specifically -- do you hear?"

"Same thing as always -- they don't like the Armed Forces policy on homosexuality, and they don't like that we don't lobby to change it. But, you know, we don't make the policy, and the Defense Department doesn't much care what we think now that we're not in the service any more, and all in all that's not an area where we feel spending time and money and energy on it would be in the best interests of our members." Davis smiled without showing any teeth. "It's a different crop of college kids all the time, of course, but over on the other side, the name that crops up over and over again is Jerry Brandt."

"Brandt. I see. Anyone else? Any non-members who've called here in the past week would be helpful."

Davis spread his hands. "I'm sorry, Detective. That's the only name I can remember."

"Well, if anything else occurs to you," Jim said, standing and handing Davis a card, "please give us a call."

Davis rose and came around the desk to shake their hands. Jim's smile was so tight Blair thought he'd bite through his tongue. Blair nodded his own thanks to the colonel and followed Jim out into the hall.

They spent the next hour and a half interviewing seven other people at the CVL, five of whom mentioned Jerry Brandt by name. Jim was seething by the time they returned to the station; then Simon said what Blair knew he would say, which was that after lunch they'd have to go have a chat with Brandt himself.

Blair knew Jim would take that badly -- and he did. "That's -- that can't be right, Simon," he said.

"Look, Jim," Simon said, waving them into his office and speaking quietly. "Blair. I can send someone else out to do the Brandt interview if you'd rather. I don't know how well you know the guy."

"I don't know him at all," Blair said. "Just for the record."

"I don't -- we've been introduced, is all, but that's not the point, Simon. I'm fine to take lead on this thing, but they all said he'd been critical, not threatening. I don't think we should be wasting time interrogating an innocent man."

"You're right, Jim. Which is why you're not going to interrogate him. You're just going to ask him a few questions. How many times have you assured people they weren't under arrest?" Simon gestured sharply with his cigar. "Listen to me, Ellison -- I do not want to see you lose your objectivity here."

Jim's nostrils flared, and Blair knew Simon had hit a nerve. "There's no danger of that, sir."

"Good. Then you'll recognize that in light of the fact that six out of eight of your interview subjects mentioned the same individual, the prudent next step is to speak to that individual as soon as possible."

"But Simon --"

"Dammit, Ellison, those people heard hoof-beats. Now it might turn out to be a zebra, but first we have to make sure there's not a horse coming. You got me?"

"Jim," Blair said, laying a hand on Jim's arm. Jim had inhaled to yell, but he let it go again, glaring at Simon and breathing through his mouth, holding the tip of his tongue between his front teeth. "Why don't we take a walk over to the break room, huh? Get something to drink." Jim pushed him away and stormed off through the bullpen. "I'll meet you there," Blair called after him.

"Sandburg, will he be able to handle this without making it personal?" Simon asked after a moment. "Give it to me straight, now." Blair raised an eyebrow at him. "Sorry."

"He'll be all right, Captain," Blair said. "Let him blow off a little steam, I'll talk to him, we'll have something to eat, and we'll see Brandt around two."

Simon leaned against his doorjamb and looked out across the bullpen. "I want it not to be him just as much as Jim does," he said. "He knows that, right?"

"I'll tell him, Simon. Thanks."

Blair left Simon's office, took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and strode purposefully to the break room to join Jim.

"What the hell was that?" Jim demanded, even before the door was closed. "What was that -- were you _handling_ me?"

"Jim, I --"

"And what's going _on_ here?" Jim paced around the room, fuming. "Brandt can't possibly be behind this thing; why does his name keep coming up?"

"Jim, you --"

"No, don't say I'm losing my objectivity -- I'm saying the connection between what they know he's said and what they're saying he's done isn't there, Sandburg. It isn't there. Big gap in the logic!"

"Jim, what are you shouting at --"

"It plain doesn't make _sense_, is what I'm shouting about!" Jim shouted. "The man risked his life in defense of this country, and the suggestion that he would commit an act of terrorism against his fellow-veterans is nothing short of --"

"JIM!" Blair yelled, successfully interrupting him. He tried to lay a hand on Jim's arm, to soothe and steady him, but Jim shook him off. "I'm not disagreeing with you, okay? But for god's sake, how many times have you told me --"

Jim was looking around desperately, furiously, like a trapped animal whose young were being set upon by predators. He wanted to get back in Simon's face, but the table and the chairs and Blair himself were between him and the break room door. "How many times have you told me, Jim, you can't prove a negative?!" Blair stepped out of the path of a skidding chair and clenched his fists. "Dammit, Jim, is getting angry about it going to help find who _is_ responsible here? The parade is in two days, may I remind you, and what we don't need is this bomb threat turning into a bomb explosion."

Jim shook off his grip again, but this time he put his hands on his hips and glared. Blair had met that glare head-on in the past, and it had always made him want with part of his mind to crawl through the floor and hide; Jim was glaring at the floor, though, so the floor itself was out of luck. Blair perched on the edge of the table and put his feet on a chair. "Let's do our jobs, huh?" he said quietly. "Investigate this thing. Find who called in that threat, find who has bomb-worthy issues with the CVL, and get Jerry's name off the record." Jim turned to face Blair, but his eyes were closed. "One thing at a time, okay?"

"Okay." A whisper.

"Want to go detect some lunch?"

A fraction of a smile. "Okay." Blair pushed the chair away and hopped down off the table, turning toward the door. "Hey -- c'mon." He looked back. Jim was standing with his thumbs in his back pockets and an apology in his eyes; Blair raised an eyebrow. Jim beckoned him over with a nod of his head; Blair went. "Sure am glad I have you around to yell at me," Jim said, pulling Blair into a quick squeeze. "Bet the rest of the division is, too."

"Hey, man, I'm always ready to perform a public service," Blair said as he stepped out of the hug. "But come on, we'd better go." Jim slid one hand into Blair's hair and pressed a kiss to his lips -- then just one more. Blair returned the second kiss, an instant too late, but felt his own eyes widen. "Jim, we --"

"Please. Around here, we're old news." Jim bopped him gently on the side of the head as he pushed the chairs back around the table on his way to the door.

Jerry Brandt lived in a well-manicured Ravenswood subdivision. Jim buttoned his cuffs as he and Sandburg stepped up the walk to the front door. "I don't like this," he muttered.

"Easy, Jim, we're just here to chat," Blair murmured, touching his fingertips briefly to Jim's back. "No biggie, right?"

"Right." Jim knocked at the door.

"Just a minute," a voice called from inside the house. Jim took a step away from the door and rolled his neck. "Coming --" And the door was opened by a middle-aged man drying his hands on a dishtowel.

"Jerome Brandt?"

"Yes," Brandt said guardedly. "Who wants to know, if you don't mind my asking?"

Jim held up his shield. "I'm Detective Ellison; this is Mr. Sandburg. Do you mind if we step inside?"

"Well, I'm not sure." Brandt leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb and kept his other arm on the door. "Maybe you'd better tell me what this is about."

"We just need to ask you a few questions, sir," Jim said, as mildly as he could. "It won't take long." Brandt raised an eyebrow, but stood aside. "Thanks." Jim felt Sandburg at his elbow as he stepped into the front hallway and Brandt closed the door. "We're very sorry to intrude on you like this."

Brandt waved down the apology and went back into his kitchen. Jim and Blair followed. "I'm happy to help the police in an investigation. I'm just not sure what help I'll be able to give."

"Mr. Brandt, this morning the Cascade Veterans League received a bomb threat over the telephone."

"And you think I had something to --"

"Several people we spoke to mentioned your name," Sandburg interrupted smoothly, "and we have to follow every trail to its end. It's just thorough police work."

"We don't necessarily think you had anything to do with it," Jim assured him.

"But you think I might know something about it."

"Well, you have any idea why your name kept coming up down at CVL?" Jim asked.

"Of course I do." Brandt snorted. "I'm not the most popular person in the veterans' community in this town." He looked over at them for a moment, then went on. "Eight years ago, I was expelled from the VFW when they discovered --"

"We know who you are," Jim interrupted. "I remember the publicity, in fact. It was right around the same time I left the army."

Brandt looked at him a little more closely. "Of course. I knew you looked familiar -- you're the kid who came out of Peru."

"That's right," Jim said, smiling uncomfortably.

Brandt had extended his hand. "That was a hell of a thing," he said. Jim shook his hand briefly. "The press was all over you, huh? Guess I stole some of your thunder."

"Believe me, I didn't mind," Jim said. "So you think there's still animosity toward you among the members? Even after all this time?"

"Well, they think I'm still angry at them, apparently."

"Yeah," Sandburg spoke up, "but they got what they wanted, didn't they. You're not there."

"No, I'm not," Brandt said, leaning against the counter, "and I don't care to be. I haven't had any contact with them, public or private, in years. You've gotten my phone records, I guess? You'll see. No calls from here to any veterans' organizations of any kind. Sorry."

Sandburg pulled out his notebook again. "Can you tell us anyone else we might talk to about this thing, Mr. Brandt?"

"You know, Mr. Sandburg, I can't. And even if I could, I'm not sure I'd name names. I'm afraid in my book it takes a little more than someone who has a grudge and a hunch to cast suspicion on a person."

"Nobody's suspicious, sir," Jim said stiffly. "But you have to know there are people who get suspicious when people don't cooperate. We don't want that to happen --"

"Okay, okay," Sandburg interrupted. "If you think of anything else, Mr. Brandt, please don't hesitate to call us. Let me give you the numbers --" He scribbled Jim's work and cell phone numbers on the back of his own business card and handed it to Brandt. "Anything at all."

"We've got to be missing something," Rafe said, leaning back in his chair and staring at the blackboard.

"You keep saying that, buddy," Brown yawned. "We know we're missing something. We're missing a suspect. We don't have anyone we like here." Rafe threw a pencil at him.

"Everybody, everybody, look," Simon said. "It's late. We're not getting any further with what we've got here tonight. Tomorrow the written demands should come in; as soon as CVL gives them to us, we can start analyzing the document, the language -- shoot, maybe we'll get lucky and get a print. Meantime, everyone go home and get some rest." The Major Crime detectives started to disperse. "Ellison, Sandburg -- got a minute?"

Blair looked at Jim; both shrugged. "Sure, Simon. What's up?"

"We're going to have to have everyone at the parade this weekend, guys. I need to eighty-six your ersatz travel plans."

Jim's eyes had narrowed; Blair knew he'd seen this coming. "I figured. What's the plan?"

"I don't know until we see what these jokers say they're planning to do," Simon admitted. "But there will be one, and I'll need you both. I'm sorry."

"Hey," Blair said with a slight, tired smile, "work is work, right?"

"He's right, Simon," Jim said, laying a hand on Blair's shoulder. Blair fought the impulse to drop his head forward so Jim could rub his neck; he'd just finished saying work was work, after all, and in Simon's office they were Ellison and Sandburg first, Jim and Blair second. But Jim's hand was warm and heavy and felt really good after the day they'd had ... Blair concentrated on listening to Jim's voice, rather than nod off on his feet. "We want a bomb to go off even less than we want to seem to be supporting the local vets' organizations."

"Yeah," Blair agreed again, yawning. "We can march. We'll survive."

Simon raised his eyebrows and sighed through his nose. "I sure as hell hope we all survive, gentlemen. I knew you'd understand. As your captain, I'll dismiss you and see you tomorrow." He made a sympathetic face. "As your friend, though, I'm sorry. I know this isn't how you wanted it."

"Thanks, Simon. We'll see you tomorrow." Jim squeezed Blair's shoulder once. "Come on, Chief. Let's roll."

"Rollin'." They grabbed their jackets on the way through the empty bullpen; everyone else had beat a hasty retreat.

When the elevator doors closed behind them, Blair finally did hang his head, knowing Jim would automatically slide a hand up under his hair and massage the nape of his neck. "Listen, Jim," he said after a moment, pressing his chin into his chest. "I'm sorry about earlier. This morning. I didn't want to --"

"No, Chief, you were right on the money," Jim said. "I shouldn't have flown off the handle like that. I meant what I said about being glad you're here to yell at me."

"Yeah, I know it's the yelling that makes you really glad you have me," Blair smirked. The elevator doors opened onto the parking lot.

"You better believe it."

"I wonder _why_ you got so upset about that, though," Blair mused.

"Because it was misguided and wrong and I didn't want any part of it? You wouldn't be surprised if Simon flipped out over racial profiling, would you?"

"_I'd_ flip out over racial profiling. But anyway, I'm not surprised at the reaction -- just the magnitude." Blair shoved his hands in his coat pockets. "I mean, you see mistreatment and injustice and all that nasty stuff all the time, and it always strikes some wrong chord in you, which is why you're a cop in the first place, and that makes sense. You're hardwired, as a Sentinel. You have like a turbo-motivated sense of justice. We know that. So you're all about protecting the tribe, which isn't news. But what I don't get is how different impetuses, different emotional stimuli, trip that wire to different degrees." They reached the truck, and Blair slapped the passenger-side door with an open palm. "Hey, maybe that's it -- maybe your _sense_ of fairness and justice and stuff is as enhanced as your external senses, man. I'll have to think of some ways to monitor --" Jim pulled him close and kissed him.

It took Blair a startled second to shift gears; Jim had reached for his collar with no warning, so he was still speaking when their lips met, but it was only an instant before he closed his eyes and opened his mouth and lifted his hands to hold onto Jim's jacket. Just as he was getting in the groove, though, just as he was about to push with his tongue and take control of the kiss, Jim pulled away. "Get in the car," he whispered, pulling on a lock of hair. "We can talk about my sense of honor and my sense of propriety and my sense of humor when we get home. It'll be much more ... comfortable there than in the garage." Blair swallowed and smiled and got in the car.

They didn't speak the whole way back; Jim watched the road, and Blair watched Jim. Each kept his hands in his pockets as they rode up the elevator and walked down the hallway. It seemed that each was trying to win some sort of masochistic endurance contest, and that seemed particularly foolish. Blair knew both he and Jim were in favor of delayed gratification on principle, but the trouble was that there was a very real possibility the gratification would be delayed past a point where the delay was worth it. But, of course, Blair knew his desire for sexual gratification -- why couldn't he have it _both_ instant _and_ delayed, another part of his mind wondered -- competed with his desire to defeat Jim, just to have something to tease him about.

Blair smiled to himself as he hung up his coat and kicked off his shoes. He went into the office to see if Burton or anybody had anything to say about senses other than the five basic ones; he could hear that Jim was untying his own shoes and setting everything tidily by the door, and that made him smile even more. "Jim, look at this," he said, marking a page with his finger where there was a discussion of a case in an Andean tribe where a woman had been abducted and killed. The village Sentinel had called louder than anyone, even the woman's husband, for the kidnapper's blood. "This is another one -- your sense of vengeance," Blair went on, stepping out into the living room just as Jim turned around from the kitchen.

Of course it didn't really matter who won the contest. The part of Blair's mind that was always interested in thorough, unbiased research would probably have given the edge to Jim, since Blair did drop the book before either of them had taken a step. Anyone else in the circumstances in which Blair found himself would dispense with the analysis, call the thing a draw, and move on -- which, after that briefest of moments, Blair did.

He couldn't get enough of Jim's kisses. Partly it was the taste, but ultimately the taste of Jim's mouth was only a fraction of the totality of the experience. Blair remembered discovering, as a kid, that kissing really was a fun and exciting thing when you got to kiss a girl instead of your mom or your Aunt Esther. The first time he'd slid his tongue into a girl's mouth, she'd squeaked and wrapped her arms around his neck, and his head had spun. It had only gotten better from there -- and being kissed by Jim Ellison was just something else. It was the Big Rocket Thunder Coaster next to the Coney Island kiddie ride that had been that far-off kiss with whatshername, whose mother ironed her hair.

Jim kissed like he couldn't even entertain thoughts of doing anything else. Every sort of attention he could focus on the kiss, he did. He looked at your lips, and then he closed his eyes and leaned forward and inhaled through his nose, right before parting his own lips just slightly and pressing them to yours, where he could get to them with the tip of his tongue. He grabbed your head with his hands and held on, and of course it was all so fantastic that you moaned out loud and he heard you. Blair loved every second of it. He placed his hands on Jim's hips and opened his mouth enough to draw Jim's tongue inside. In his hair, Jim's hands tightened. Their lips parted; each took a breath; and they met again in the next instant, like a graph resuming after a gap where the result had been nonexistent because you couldn't divide by zero. Blair closed his eyes and held on tight and soaked up the taste of Jim's mouth. Betcha can't eat just one.

Blair unbuckled Jim's belt, unbuttoned his pants, and pulled his shirt out of his waistband. The move was successful; Jim's lips left Blair's and moved over his jaw, down his neck, toward his throat. Blair started with the bottom buttons on his shirt when Jim started with the top, and between them they had Blair bare to the waist in seconds. Jim's mouth was right back on him. He mumbled something that sounded like "always taste so _good_" and gnawed on Blair's collarbone. Blair unbuttoned Jim's shirt and pushed it off his shoulders and down his arms; it turned inside out and hung from his wrists, even when Jim reached behind him to pull his hands out of the sleeves. "Damn. Damn. Cuffs." Jim took a step away and twisted back into his shirt in order to get it off properly.

While he had the chance, Blair pulled off his socks and hurried up the stairs. Given the choice, he usually preferred the bed to the floor. Jim was about three steps behind him; they tumbled onto the bed and let their arms and legs tangle together, squirming out of their pants and under the blankets. You touched a man differently than you touched a woman, Blair reflected. And not just in the obvious sense that there were different things to touch. Of course, his experience with men was as limited as it could get -- so at least, he amended, he touched Jim differently than he had ever touched a woman. He'd found women to appreciate a light touch, almost frustrating -- that old instant-versus-delayed gratification thing again, no doubt. There had been girls who occasionally liked it rough, of course, but he'd never gone wrong with just skating the pads of his fingers over a variety of sensitive spots that had reduced a series of women to trembling heaps in his arms. Now he found himself running over Jim's body with the flats of his hands, almost what he'd call feeling instead of touching. He idly wondered whether that was a difference between men and women or a difference between Jim and other people or what; then Jim reached over to the nightstand and pressed what he found there into Blair's hands, and even the mostly-continuous scholarly-observation part of his brain quit thinking for a while.

By the clock on the nightstand, it was five-thirty when Blair woke up. Jim's head rested on his chest, one hand on his opposite shoulder, legs wound together in a jumble. Blair wiggled his toes and could feel that Jim hadn't even kicked his socks off in his sleep. He grinned. Every so often Jim surprised him -- a new place, or an inventive use of food, or something like that. Leaving his white crew socks on had been a nice touch. Blair had rubbed his face against Jim's ankle like a cat while Jim had lain on his back with his knees around his ears.

Blair stroked Jim's forehead and neck. Jim stirred. Blair let his fingers drift back up to Jim's face and watched as Jim, coming up out of sleep, turned his head to lean into the touch. When he was sure Jim was awake and just basking, Blair brushed his thumb across Jim's lips; Jim opened his mouth and drew the thumb all the way in, but he only sucked on it for a moment before opening his eyes and grinning at Blair. "Morning," Blair murmured.

"Morning," Jim said, pulling his mouth off Blair's thumb and pushing himself up onto his elbows. "You astonish me."

"Do I?"

"Frequently." Jim leaned down for a quick but thorough kiss and rolled over so Blair was on top.

"I love you." Blair licked Jim's ear.

"I love you. So much ... and we have to be at work asap this morning. Better get up." Jim rolled them over again.

"Ah, Jim ... "

"Nope. No wheedling." Jim kissed Blair once more, and moved off him and out of bed. "You want to shower first?"

"Yeah, okay." Blair yawned extravagantly. "In a minute."

"Now, Sleeping Beauty," Jim said, yanking the blankets away as Blair groaned and turned over onto his stomach. "We've got a time to beat."

Blair dutifully got up and went through his morning routine. He didn't linger in the shower; dawdling under the spray just made him drowsy, and Jim was right -- they had to be at work pronto. Blair sighed. He'd sort of planned to get some writing done over the weekend, but police work had trumped the dissertation yet again. At least the paper was almost done, he thought, turning off the water and wrapping towels around his hair and his waist. He couldn't keep this juggling act up forever -- though of course he'd probably always be juggling _something_.

The smell of coffee drew Blair to the kitchen rather than up the stairs to dress, but it was still brewing. The coffeemaker hissed and clicked from its perch on the counter. "It'll be ready by the time you're dressed," Jim said, tapping him on the head with the newspaper. "Drink your algae." But by the time Blair was dressed and had drunk his algae, Jim was showered and dressed and heading out the door. They took their coffee to go.

* * *

  
The Major Crime division had spent two more frustrating hours looking at the phone records, talking to snitches, and making no progress when Jim's phone had rung at eight-thirty. "Ellison."

"Good morning, Detective. This is Andrew Davis."

"Yes." Jim had been instantly alert and rummaged in his drawer for a note pad. "Has something happened, Colonel?"

"Just what we expected -- we have the demands the caller promised would be delivered today."

"Great," Jim had said enthusiastically. "We'll be right down. Try not to handle the document too much, if possible. We'll see you in just a few minutes." He'd hung up the phone and called for Sandburg and an evidence bag as he made for the door.

Now, with the original document at Forensics ("Downtown postmark and a self-adhesive stamp? We're thrilled you have such high opinions of our diagnostic capabilities, Detective") and copies faxed or delivered to the police department psychiatrist, the chair of the university's criminology department, and Joel Taggert, Jim rubbed his eyes as his team went over the text with Davis for what must have been the fifteenth time.

"We're trying to help, Colonel," Simon was saying. "And we know you're trying to help us. You know a lot that we don't know about the veterans' community in this town, and we appreciate your being so cooperative. But you're going to have to believe that we know a lot that you don't know about investigative procedure. We've spoken to Mr. Brandt, and he does not seem to be involved with this incident."

"I don't know who else it could be. He's the only one I can think of who --"

"Think harder."

It was Rafe who had interrupted -- not loudly, not forcefully, just with a sort of no-nonsense air of pointing out the obvious -- and Jim stared. Rafe glanced over, caught Jim's eye, and gave a little nod.

"We know you're a busy man, Colonel," Simon said, showing Davis to the door. "We'll let you get back to your regular schedule. Our bomb squad is going over your building, and I'm sure he has some things to talk about with you also. We'll be back in touch.

"All right." Simon closed the door, folded his arms, and nodded. Sandburg turned the blackboard to its reverse side and grabbed a new piece of chalk. "What have we got," Simon went on.

Jim gave Rhonda a stack of copies to hand out. "The Cascade Veterans League does not represent all veterans in the Cascade metropolitan area," he read. Sandburg drew a line down the middle of the board and wrote 'DOES NOT REP ALL VETS' on the left side. "Assuming this complaint is made by a veteran, who might make it? Besides the gay veterans, as the colonel was thoughtful enough to point out. Anyone?"

"A homeless veteran," Ramos suggested. Sandburg wrote 'GAY' and then 'HMLS' on the right-hand side of the blackboard.

"Homeless guy isn't going to be able to follow through with the bombing plan, though," Brown pointed out. Sandburg put parentheses around 'HMLS.' "But a disabled vet? Maybe his insurance didn't cover all the medical expenses and the lost earnings and all that stuff." Sandburg wrote 'DSBLD' underneath 'HMLS'.

"Could be someone who fought in, like, Korea, couldn't it?" Sandburg suggested, tapping the chalk against the board twice, pensively, and then turning and gesturing with it. "The forgotten war? Or someone who didn't fight at all, and thinks there's disproportionate attention given to, I don't know, World War Two, greatest generation, Vietnam, always a crowd favorite, and the Gulf War, since it was so recent?"

"You're saying someone who didn't fight in one of those wars?" Simon verified. Sandburg waited for his nod before writing 'NON WWII VIETNAM GULF' in the right-hand column.

"Actually," Jim said, "that brings us nicely to the second complaint: the Cascade Veterans League glorifies wrongs, injustices and atrocities committed by and in the name of the United States Armed Forces."

"You know they're called 'uniformed services' now," Sandburg said. Everyone glared at him. "What? They are. Same time 'personnel' turned into 'human resources.'"

"Wrongs committed by and in the name of the armed forces," Simon repeated, and Sandburg wrote 'INJSTC US ARMED FORC.' in his left-hand column. "Come on, people."

"Well, there's a ton of things people complain about," Rafe said. "They're not all so reasonable, though."

"We'll worry about reasonable later. Let's hear it."

"Hiroshima and Nagasaki, for a start," Rafe said.

"My Lai. Mekong. Saigon," Jim offered.

"Go ahead and just put Vietnam civilians," Simon said.

"Bombing Iraq."

"Air strikes in Bosnia."

"Israel," Sandburg said, when he had finished writing 'A-BOMB VIETNAM CIVS IRAQ BOS.' Everybody seemed a little surprised. "We're allowing for unreasonable thought processes, right?" Sandburg said, defending himself. "There are people who _hate_ that the US is pro-Israel. And they'd actually have a decent point, if they didn't take it to absurd lengths. But there are civilians getting just as dead there as they did in My Lai." He folded his arms and raised an eyebrow.

"And those guys are always bombing stuff," Brown pointed out.

"No, come on, there's no 'those guys' here," Simon scolded. "If you mean Islamic militants, they tend not to send warnings ahead of time. Put it on the list, but I think it's a reach." Sandburg added 'MID EAST' to the board.

"What about women?" Connor asked suddenly.

"What about them?" Jim said.

"It's just a guess, but isn't the army a bit of a tough place for a woman? I have enough trouble sometimes being around the lot of you, and this is sort of ... Army Lite."

"She's got a point," Sandburg nodded. "It's got to be hard for young guys to think of the woman at the other end of the table as a fellow-soldier rather than as a girl. That kind of expectation of gender roles is very resistant to change. And, I mean, the Tailhook thing -- I know that was a long time ago, but it was symptomatic of what must be totally routine, unexceptionable objectification of women in the armed forces. For every Tailhook we hear about, there's probably ten or fifteen incidents we don't."

"We get it," Simon said dryly. "Just scribble." Sandburg grinned and wrote 'WMN' on the blackboard.

"Okay, and the third complaint," Jim said. "The Cascade Veterans League and the Defense Department it supports seek to limit free speech that could only enlighten Americans and would not jeopardize their national security." He looked up. "What does that mean?"

"They try to shut people up," said Sandburg, writing 'RSTRCT FREE SPCH' on the left side.

"I ought to sic them on you," Jim grinned.

"Ha ha."

"So, who gets up in arms about free speech?" Simon asked.

"College students," three people at once said. Sandburg pretended to reel under the impact, then wrote 'STUDENTS' on the right.

"Journalists," Megan suggested.

"Do journalists set bombs?" Brown asked.

"Worry about patterns of behavior later," Simon reminded them. "Are there still any communists left?" he asked. Sandburg wrote 'JRNLST COMM.'

"Scientists?" Jim said. "I don't know, physics, biology, they might know things about weapons and defense and stuff."

"I don't know," Sandburg said. "It's a common thing to keep a lid on one's research while it's in progress, you know, until you're ready to publish." He coughed twice. "Or until you're not ready to publish."

Jim looked sharply at Sandburg, but Sandburg was apparently at ease with the subject of his dissertation and the fiasco surrounding its publication; his heart rate hadn't sped up at all.

"But Sandburg," Brown said, "you weren't researching drugs and vaccines and stuff. Your projects weren't impacting public health."

"So? I still wasn't talking about it while I was working on it. I'm just saying scientists might not be as all about the people's right to know as you all think."

"Okay, but that was a self-imposed gag order you were working under," Simon said. "If you'd wanted to talk about it, you'd have been allowed to."

"Yeah, okay." Sandburg wrote 'SCI.'

"Who else?"

"Anti-war protesters," Rafe said. "And flag-burners." Sandburg wrote 'ANTI-WAR (burn flags, draft cards, sit ins, vandalism)'.

"I'm going to put homosexuals here, too," Sandburg said, writing 'GAY' again, "because that's the whole thing about the Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy -- it criminalizes, or at least under the UCMJ, you know, the _discussion_ of homosexual orientation, and a lot of people, a lot of gay service members, opposed it for that reason. Didn't feel like it really solved anything -- actually made it worse in some cases. Anyway. Just being thorough."

"Thank you, Sandburg," Simon said, standing up and taking out a cigar. "So." He looked at the board. "We've got 'gay' twice; we should probably have women up in the first set, too; I'd tie 'a-bomb' to 'science;' and three 'Vietnams'."

"No, that's just two Vietnams, Simon," Sandburg said, making the additions and drawing the circles and lines Simon had indicated. "This one up top's a guy who didn't fight in any of those three wars."

"Put Vietnam by itself, then," Simon mused. "Like you said before, it's never been a popular war -- there are people who still get worked up over it."

"So okay," Jim said, folding his copy of the letter into his pocket and coming to look at the board. "We've already talked to Brandt, so the gay angle is covered. I say we send Connor out with Ramos to a few of the female members of the outfit, and Sandburg and I hit the university and talk to some physicists."

Simon nodded. "And Brown and Rafe, you two get on the Vietnam-era vets. Good luck."

Jim let Sandburg take the lead when they got to Rainier. "Hey, your turf, Chief," he said. "You're not just my sidekick, right?"

"Right, right." Sandburg chuckled. "I still keep expecting to have to remind you of that."

"You can't write your paper about police society without me; I can't investigate effectively at the university without you. Mutually beneficial."

"I knew I'd always have to remind you of something," Sandburg said, swatting Jim's arm with the back of his hand. "Of course we'd both be able to do our jobs without the other. It'd be harder, but not impossible. It's a mutually beneficial relationship we have, but -- heh -- not on a professional level. Here's the science building. Dial down smell."

Jim blinked and obeyed as Sandburg led him into a building with wide tiled hallways and painted-cinderblock walls. "You spend much time over here?"

"Not really. Some, as an undergrad -- lab work, carbon-dating, that kind of thing. But that's not really my speed. Got the requirements out of the way early. These extreme physics people ... no idea what they're talking about." He knocked on a door, and a man's voice invited them to enter. Sandburg opened the door and stepped inside with his smile beaming and his hand outstretched. "Professor Dodge? We spoke on the phone. Blair Sandburg. I don't know if we've ever met."

"I don't think we have," the professor said, rising and shaking hands, "but of course I know your name. Come in, come in."

"Thank you. This is Detective Jim Ellison, from the Cascade Police Department."

"Professor."

"Detective. Please, have a seat."

"We wanted to ask you some questions, Professor, just theoretically, about the scientific community in general. Do you know if there are researchers in the Cascade area who have defense contracts?"

"Defense research. Hmm." Dodge pulled on his beard with two fingers. "Well, government-funded research, sure, where there are government grants involved," he said. "Or after the fact, someone comes up with something, it gets approved later. But that's not really contract work, I guess. And there's probably not too many people who I'd say work for the _defense_ department, unless they do research at the VA hospital. I couldn't say."

"I see. But there are defense grants for research? What kind of research?" Dodge made a hesitant face, and Sandburg hastily amended his question. "Just generally speaking. We know there are things you're not supposed to talk about -- we wouldn't understand the details anyway. But broadly."

"Space program, for one thing," the professor said. "I assume that's why you called me -- to get the physics angle?" At Sandburg's nod, he went on. "Used to be they were interested in nuclear physics, but now it's all astro. Is there other life out there, could we communicate, can human life be possible on other planets, where if at all does the universe end, that sort of thing. I know there's some stuff going on up in biochemistry, too, but I don't know anything about it."

"We're very interested in the scientific community's perception of the military's attitude toward scientific discovery," Jim said, dispensing with the tiptoeing. "What can you tell us about that?"

Sandburg kicked him under his chair, but picked up the question. "For example, how dangerous is it that people in general don't know what goes on in your labs with government funding -- which is, after all, just a bunch of taxpayer dollars?"

"Dangerous? I'd say not at all." Dodge scratched his eyebrow and looked back at them. "This is all theoretical. I mean, if it gets to where we Know Things --" he made theatrical gestures with his hands -- "and keep the public in the dark, you know, that'd be dangerous. Might be even more dangerous to make them aware, but that's something to decide on an individual basis. But right now, we're just sort of speculating and looking at things and doing a lot of math. Maybe it would be dangerous if the public knew how their tax dollars were being spent with hardly any concrete results, but it's not like there _are_ concrete results for them to object to the money's being spent on in the first place. You follow?"

Jim replayed the comments again and found that he did follow. "So the fact that you have an obligation to keep quiet about your research doesn't pose any ethical problems for you?"

"Nah. And I think most scientists would say the same. If we hit something big, it might be different, but right now I don't think anybody's keeping anything from the public that the public would much care about. People might object on principle, but the easy way around that is not to accept a government grant."

"Sounds reasonable," Sandburg said, standing up. "Thanks for your time, Professor."

"I'm glad to help out -- that is, I hope I've been helpful."

"Yes, sir," Jim said, rising and shaking the professor's hand again. "Thank you very much."

"Close the door on the way out?" Sandburg asked.

"Please."

"Well, Chief," Jim said, following Sandburg down the hall and shoving his hands in his pockets, "where to now?"

"Biochem," Sandburg replied. "Talk to someone who might know about vaccines and germ warfare and arsenic in the drinking water, and hope we get answers like we just got from him."

The biochemistry professor was six floors up and clear on the other side of the building. Along the way, they passed lab after lab with windows in the doors through which Jim could see smocked and goggled students conducting experiments whose purpose he couldn't even begin to guess.

Once again, Sandburg knocked on the door and led the way when they were invited in. He made the introductions, as before, and Professor Manzanilla turned from the papers she'd been grading to give them her full attention as they took their seats in her visitors' chairs.

"Hmm. Government-funded projects the people ought to know about. Interesting question," she said, when they cut right to the chase. "I don't know that I can think of any. The thing is, there are certainly things happening up here that are going to be made public some day, and when they are, there are going to be people who think they should have known sooner. It's inevitable."

"But what do the scientists themselves think, Professor?"

"I believe, and I know many of my colleagues agree, that it would actually be quite dangerous in most cases to bring the public in on our research any sooner than we do. We tend not to keep secrets, gentlemen -- we make our findings public, just not our procedures."

"That's basically what Dodge told us," Sandburg murmured.

Jim nodded. "I assume there are solid reasons for that?"

"Well, yes. We want to give people solid information, not speculation. People in general, and the media in particular, they have this habit of seizing on a tiny fraction of what you tell them and making that the centerpiece of their focus on the issue. If we tell them we're working on, I don't know, a drug that we hope will be able to eliminate pneumonia, someone will try to figure out _why_ we're trying to eliminate pneumonia. There'll be nostalgia pieces on the major flu epidemics of the past century, setting aside the fact that influenza and pneumonia are different illnesses, and there'll be a whole series of special focuses on pneumonia in the Third World and pneumonia in AIDS patients. But you have to understand that the percentage of experiments that go all the way through to a successful drug and FDA approval is very, very low. The number of things that can go wrong is huge. A chemical compound can be too unstable for medicinal purposes. Or it can cause horrible side effects. Or it can be too expensive to produce, and we have to figure out a way to make it affordable. That takes time. It's often much safer to keep the research out of the spotlight and make people aware of the results."

"I see." Jim mused for a minute to give Sandburg a chance to catch up with his notes. "So you don't have ethical problems with not discussing your research -- that doesn't strike you as the government stifling free speech, for example."

"I ... no, I don't."

"And what about others in your field?"

"Well ... I don't think so. I mean, I guess I can see where they might, but I don't think anybody _does_. At least, I haven't heard anybody say so."

"Ah." Jim stood; Sandburg wrote another 'X' in his notebook and rose as well. "Thanks for allowing us to intrude. We'll let you get back to the, ah ... "

Manzanilla grimaced. "Freshman midterms. I should keep you here talking for the rest of the day, if I know what's good for me." She stood and shook both their hands. "If I can be of any more help, Detective ... "

"We'll be sure to call you, ma'am," Sandburg smiled. "Thanks." He closed the door behind him and rolled his eyes at Jim. "Back to the station now, right, Wally?" he asked.

"I dunno, Beav, I have a quarter to twelve," Jim said as they headed back to the truck. "I bet it'd be okay with Dad if we grabbed some lunch before getting back to our chores."

"We'll get sandwiches for everybody," Sandburg said. Jim was about to tug on his hair and call him an apple-polisher, but Sandburg had pulled out his cell phone and was dialing. He really was a thoughtful little sonofabitch, Jim chided himself. He looked out for Number One, sure -- hardly surprising given Naomi's me-first approach to life -- but on the other hand Jim had never known Sandburg to hesitate before doing a friend a favor. Jim himself had received unscented shaving cream, dye-free laundry detergent, all-cotton socks, food without weird chemical preservatives, and white noise generators without ever having so much as mentioned to Sandburg that he needed anything of the kind. And of everybody in the Major Crime division, he couldn't think of anyone else who would automatically volunteer to fetch lunch for everyone else. Maybe Rhonda offered to bring everybody lunch if she was already running out for Simon. Everybody else -- well, they invited you along when they were going out, sure, but normally the expectation was that you and your lunch would be in the same place at the same time.

Jim reached for Blair's free hand, but Blair shook him off with a slight smile. "Okay. ... Okay. ... Uh-huh," he was saying into the phone. "Okay. Roast beef ... turkey, right -- is that for Meg -- yeah, the avocado slices," he grinned. "Got it. Hang on, let me write this down, if everybody's ordering." Jim pulled out his own note pad and winked. 'Thanks,' Blair whispered as Jim dialed up his hearing. "Go ahead. From the top."

"Roast beef with brown mustard on white toast for Simon," Rhonda said, sounding patient and not at all annoyed. "Turkey with tomato and avocado on white toast for Connor. Tuna salad on pumpernickel for Rafe."

"That's so disgusting," Sandburg muttered.

"Heal thyself, Mr. Algae Shake," Jim shot back. Sandburg crossed his eyes and grinned.

"Turkey on wheat for Ramos. Corned beef with yellow mustard on rye for Brown, and he says to make sure it's the kind of rye bread that has the seeds in it."

"Rye with seeds, check," Sandburg said. "What about you, Rhonda?"

"Me?"

"Yeah, you. Are you not eating lunch today for some reason?"

"I just didn't realize you meant me, too, is all. Um ... if I said turkey on sourdough would you yell at me?"

"Of course not. Mustard? Mayo?"

"Both, actually. Why don't I live dangerously." Jim could hear her smile. "I think that's everyone -- I'll grab some sodas and put another pot of coffee on."

"You're beautiful, Rhonda."

"A saint," Jim agreed, loudly enough for Rhonda to hear.

"We should be there in forty-five minutes, an hour, depending on the line."

In fact, they were back at the station in thirty-seven minutes, sandwiches in hand, thanks to the good graces and quick sandwich-making of Ethel Shipman. The team collected in Simon's office, where Sandburg distributed the sandwiches, set three large orders of onion rings in the middle of the table, and tossed two pickle spears to each detective. "Now you each have your own, so no stealing from your neighbor," he warned with a smirk. "That means you, too, Ellison."

"Yeah, yeah, rave on," Jim said, ruffling Sandburg's hair as they took their seats and dug in. "Anybody get anything good from the interviews?"

"The women angle was a total bomb," Ramos said through a mouthful of sandwich. Thankfully, he swallowed before continuing. "Even the girls who --"

"Women," Connor interrupted, with a tone that suggested she'd corrected him on this point before.

"Even the _women_ who came right out and admitted that they thought the CVL was an old boys club and --" he checked his notes -- "a total disgrace to the uniform its members once wore --"

"These were women who'd been enlisted service members and women who'd been high-ranking officers," Connor interrupted again.

"Even they thought bombing the place was a stupid idea. They weren't too sold on the idea of retribution, I guess." Ramos shrugged and reached for some onion rings.

"Yeah, we got nothing either," Sandburg said. "They could be building a bomb or breeding the plague down there, and they'd say the Defense Department would be right to keep it hush-hush until they were sure it was going to work." He didn't sound pleased, and tore a crust off his sandwich with a surprisingly harsh twist of his wrist. "Like the process doesn't matter, it's only the goal that's important. Stupid way to conduct research."

"Didn't you just remind us that you were keeping your own research quiet, Sandy?" Connor asked, amused.

"Sure, but Brown was right -- there was no public health issue. I kept it quiet for my own reasons, not because I thought I knew what was best for the whole population of the city."

"But anyway, it doesn't sound like it's the mad scientists plotting the CVL's downfall," Jim said.

"Maybe we got all the cards, then," Brown grinned.

Everyone looked at him. Simon sat forward and very nearly put his elbow in a splotch of mustard on his sandwich wrapper. "You hit something, Brown?"

"It's a little too soon to tell, actually, sir," Brown said, "but it looks like it could be something. We talked to a guy who served in Vietnam and still keeps in touch with most of his outfit. And he says he does know one guy who's had some complaints over the years, and some of the things he said sounded -- to us, anyway -- a little like some of the things in the letter the CVL got."

"We're going to go talk to the friend next," Rafe nodded.

"Is there a reason you're not talking to the friend now?" Simon asked.

"'S lunchtime, Simon," Rafe said.

Simon was clearly not amused. "Whoa," Brown said. "Okay, then. We've got a couple of cars keeping an eye on the house, and if the guy gets home before we get back they'll give us a holler. We came back here to dot some i's and cross some t's. And Sandburg brought us sandwiches." He grinned, but quickly sobered. "Seriously, though. In case this guy turns out to be someone we're interested in, we wanted to be sure everything was kosher."

"I appreciate that," Simon said. "But we are running against the clock here. Soon as you finish those sandwiches, I want you back down there on the double. Ellison, Sandburg, you too."

"Huh?"

"Did you have some other plans for this afternoon?"

"No, sir."

"Good. What's this guy's name, Brown?"

"Landry. Benjamin Landry."

"We seen his phone records yet?"

"They're coming up. CVL didn't call him, but once we talked to this other guy, we pulled 'em."

"Excellent," Simon said. "Pass the onion rings."

* * *

  
"What are they saying?" Blair poked Jim in the ribs. "Anything interesting? I can't believe they didn't let us do it. It's fun watching you do your Bad Cop thing."

"Just keep your eyes open. The guy could turn up any minute," Jim said. "Rafe's Bad Cop is plenty amusing. And it wasn't our turn."

"What are they expecting to get from _her_?"

"Oh, gee, I don't know, Mr. Importance of Secondary Sources," Jim retorted, poking Blair back and grinning. "Maybe Mrs. Landry's impression of her husband's attitude and outlook might just be the tiniest bit helpful, you think?"

"If we're interested in the effect his attitude has on her life and experience, maybe," Blair said with a smile. "Otherwise, it's biased. I'd much rather talk to -- here he comes. This is him."

A blue station wagon had passed the spot where they were waiting in the truck and was about to pull into the Landrys' driveway in the middle of the block. Jim was out of the truck and approaching the car before the driver had even turned off the engine. "Detective Ellison, Cascade PD," he was saying as Blair caught up to him. "We'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind, sir. What can you tell us about your military service?"

"Um ... I -- I served in Vietnam," Landry said. "Can we go inside? I've --"

"In a minute. Did you volunteer to go to Vietnam, or were you drafted?"

"I was drafted while I was still deciding whether to volunteer. What's --"

"So you were a regular foot soldier."

"Yes. What's this about?"

"Are you a member of the Cascade Veterans League, Mr. Landry?"

Landry pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "As a matter of fact, I'm not," he said. "And before I answer any more questions, I'm going to have to insist that you tell me what's going on here."

"Why aren't you a member of the CVL, sir? Do you have particular problems with that organization?"

"Look, I said I --"

"Okay, time out," Blair said, going into his Good Cop routine. "Simmer down a little, there, Jim," he added, giving Jim a little push on the arm. Jim's eyes were blazing, and his nostrils flared, and Blair knew this was mostly for Landry's benefit. He allowed himself a little chuckle. "Mr. Landry, we're just investigating some trouble the CVL's been having, and we wanted to talk to you because we heard sometimes you weren't so enamored of them, is all. Can you help us out?"

"What kind of trouble?"

"Well, we can't really discuss the details of our investigation. But let's step inside, huh? You look a little chilly." Landry led them into the house; Blair glanced at Jim, who cocked his head for a second and then gave a minute nod toward a closed door. Rafe and Brown must have had Mrs. Landry talking in the den. No problem. They steered Mr. Landry toward the living room. "You had issues with the CVL, Mr. Landry?" Blair prompted again.

"Sure, I had issues with them. When I was a member, those guys were caught in some kind of propaganda reel. You know, like you used to see in school -- duck and cover? Nah, you're probably too young. Both of you. Dammit." He puffed air through his cheeks before continuing. "Anyway. Very much an us-against-them attitude, I felt, down at CVL, with 'them' being the rest of the known world, it sometimes seemed. No admission that the army might not always be right, much less that they could ever have done anything wrong."

"Well, that would have to be the official position of the League, wouldn't it, sir?" Blair said gently. "They market themselves as a group for patriots in uniform -- we can't really expect them to equivocate."

"I'm very, very proud to have served my country," Landry said. "But I'm appalled at some of the things I know the soldiers do. Yeah, a lot of the time they're acting on their own, but the army shouldn't allow that any more than it allows bad orders. And I always thought the responsible thing to do, as a veteran, was to call on the army to behave itself a little better -- and not too many people saw it that way."

"That sounds like a complaint with the Armed Forces," said Jim. "Not with the CVL."

"Tomato, tomahto," Landry said, waving a hand dismissively. "I don't know about those other groups -- I was never a member of the VFW, didn't like their membership pledge declaration or whatever it is -- so I don't know what they do, but the CVL is really not a lot more than a bunch of guys in denial about getting old. They lobby and campaign on their own behalf, not for the benefit of veterans who might need their help, and they don't hold themselves or the army to any standards worth mentioning. But just try to speak unfavorably about them -- hell, try to speak just _not_ favorably, try to name them without singing their praises -- in, you know, the press, or a civics class, or what have you. They'll be on your back and threatening libel suits before you can say equal time."

Blair glanced at Jim. Jim raised an eyebrow and nodded slightly. "You don't seem shy about speaking your mind, Mr. Landry," Blair said. "Should we expect a call from a CVL representative?"

Landry scoffed. "Pssht. Probably. It's certainly no secret that I don't think much of that organization. Seems like every time I hear them complain about divisiveness in the veterans community, my name's right up front." He grinned. "I'm going to have a team shirt made. Whipping Boys. With my name across the shoulders."

Jim smiled. Blair could see his jaw muscle tense, and knew it would start jumping any second. Something had tripped a wire in his head -- Blair started flipping through his notes. "Number One, huh?" Jim said conversationally.

Landry sobered immediately. "Not at all. If anybody's Whipping Boy Number One, for the veterans in this town, I mean, it's Jerry Brandt." Blair could have smacked himself upside the head. Damn it. Damn Andrew Davis. He thought about breaking his pencil, settled for biting his tongue, and flipped back to the page in his notebook where he was recording the salient details of this interview. 'B.L. as unpop. @ CVL as J.B.,' he scrawled.

"Yeah, we'd heard that," Jim agreed. "You know if he's as vocally opposed to the outfit as you are?"

Blair stared at Jim -- set professionalism aside for a second and just gaped. Take your concern about Jim's objectivity and eat it, Simon, he thought. He knew it had to be killing Jim to even ask the question, but here was an independent source naming Brandt, unsolicited, as the guy CVL beat up on the most. The fact that the animosity between Brandt and the CVL was public knowledge threw a little suspicion back Brandt's way -- and here was Jim probing that angle. Blair ruthlessly quashed the inclination to rub Jim's back in reassurance; professionalism was back in its seat. He bit his lip.

"Nah, not at all," Landry was saying, thank god. "They don't like me because I could be a member and won't. I've turned my back on them. They don't like Jerry because -- well, if you've heard, you know exactly why they don't like Jerry. They wouldn't take him even if he wanted to be a member."

Jim scratched the back of his neck and folded his arms. "Mr. Landry, can you --" his cell phone rang. "I'm sorry. Can you give us just a moment, please. Ellison." He turned away to take the call.

Blair smiled pleasantly at Landry. "These pictures of your kids?" he asked, nodding toward the mantelpiece. "Nice looking family." The most recent photograph, it appeared, showed Landry and his wife with two teenaged girls and a boy who could have been about nine. The picture was about ten years old, judging from the daughters' hairstyles. "This the last one? Been a while."

"That was the year Wendy went away to college," Landry said absently. "We've never managed to have a family picture taken since then. Seems sort of -- I don't know, anyway, since the girls aren't at home any more."

"Your son still lives at home?" Blair said, furiously making mental notes so he could keep up the pretense of casual conversation.

"He lives in the dorm at the university, but he comes home all the time," Landry said. "Connie won't do the laundry for him, but she will let him use the machine without taking away all his quarters."

Blair laughed on the cue, and Jim came back from his phone call just in time for Mrs. Landry to hurry into the room, followed by Rafe and Brown. "Well, great," Jim said. "I'm glad everyone's all together for this. Mr. Landry, I've just spoken to our people at the station, and they tell me there was a six-minute call from your house to the Cascade Veterans League a little before ten on Wednesday morning."

"Well, that can't be right," Landry said. "We were both at work Wednesday morning."

"That phone call was a bomb threat, sir," Rafe said. "I suggest you consider very carefully whether or not you want to do this the hard way."

"Wait -- but who are --"

"Detective Rafe. Detective Brown. Cascade PD. We're going to need to take a look around. Ma'am?"

The Landrys exchanged a communicative glance. "Perhaps you'd better come back when you have a warrant," Mrs. Landry said.

"Why? You hiding something?" Rafe asked. "You know we'll leave Detective Ellison here while we go get the warrant, so it's not like you'll be able to get rid of --"

"What does your son study, Mr. Landry?" Blair asked suddenly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your son. He goes to Rainier? What does he study there?"

"Physics," Landry said. "But what does that have to --"

"And he's in his ... second year?"

"That's right."

"So I expect he's taking a lot of chemistry, too, huh?" Blair pressed. Jim snapped his fingers. "This'll be his first semester of organic, if it's still the same setup as my science-major friends had when I was there. How's he like that?"

"We get it, Chief. Rafe, Brown, go get the warrant. Make sure it specifies the whole house, including the kids' rooms. Dot those i's you were talking about." They nodded and ran out to Brown's car. "And pick up Andrew Davis again, while you're at it," he called after them. Jim pulled out his cell phone again -- to call Simon, Blair guessed, and tell him Rafe and Brown were on their way.

"Excuse me -- we don't 'get it,'" Landry said. "You think our son threatened to -- no. That's just not possible."

"Thanks, Simon," Jim said, hanging up. "Actually, sir, it is possible -- in fact, it's probable, and the detectives will be back with the warrant in about fifteen minutes. Meantime, can you tell us when was the last time you spoke to your son?"

Kevin Landry had called home Tuesday evening, and they'd had what his father had thought at the time was a casual conversation about politics, military service, social responsibility -- the sort of thing, he insisted, that you chat about with your college-age son. There was a history requirement at Rainier, even for science students; the kid was just talking about things that came up in his reading. When Jim and Blair searched his room, however, pursuant to the warrant brought back by Rafe and Brown, they found pages and pages of handwritten rants about the military in general and the Cascade Veterans League in particular; it seemed to be substantially the same harangue over and over again -- many drafts of some sort of editorial, apparently. They found printouts of news articles on assorted misbehaviors of the CVL and the Rainier University ROTC. They found one or two articles on Jerry Brandt's expulsion from the VFW. All this devastated his parents, but just the same, while Blair and Jim made sympathetic noises on one side of the room, Rafe was on his cell phone on the other side, telling Connor and Ramos to get to the university and arrest Kevin Landry pronto.

Rafe and Brown went back to the station, but Jim and Blair headed back to Rainier and met Connor and Ramos coming out of Kevin Landry's dorm. "Roommate says he hasn't seen him since Monday," Megan told them. "And his last class of the week was this morning. No idea where to find this kid."

The four of them stood on the sidewalk, watching the university rev up for the weekend. Three girls passed by with rolls of tape around their wrists and stacks of fliers in their arms. "Sandburg," Jim said, eyes narrowing as he thought out loud. "I know you don't know this kid personally, but isn't it possible you know someone who does?"

"I'm thinking, I'm thinking," said Blair. "Argh. Hard science. This is not a social bunch, man." He chewed on his thumbnail. The three girls had begun taping their fliers to the backs of benches and the trunks of trees. Blair looked sharply at Jim. The expression on Jim's face was molten and unmistakable, and Blair belatedly realized he was sucking on the tip of his thumb. He could feel Jim's gaze on his lips, and hastily tucked his thumb into a fist and stuck his hand in his pocket. "The student activities office," he said.

"Come again?" Megan asked.

"Student activities," Blair repeated. "They ought to have membership lists of all the university clubs and things. This way." He took off toward the administrative building.

Jim fell in at his side, with Megan following and Ramos behind her. "That wasn't nice," Jim growled, brushing Blair's shoulder with his as they walked.

"Sorry about that," Blair whispered back. "Subconscious."

"Aren't you always telling me about the subconscious and repressed desires?"

"I am hardly repressed, man," Blair grinned. "But yes. I'm sure my subconscious is trying to tell me something. Both of us, probably."

"I'm listening." God, it was like he could feel the heat of Jim's breath on his ear even from here -- which was patently ridiculous, as Jim had merely turned his head to speak to Blair, but not leaned in closer at all. Maybe he was getting sympathetically heightened senses, Blair thought. Hadn't he once had back pain at the same time that girlfriend of his was having cramps? Of course, his aches had continued far longer than hers, and she'd advanced the idea that he ought to replace his mattress, but still.

"Later," he whispered. "Work."

"You let me know when later rolls around, Chief," Jim murmured, holding the door to the admin building open and ushering Blair, Megan, and Ramos through.

"Hi there," Blair said, ignoring Jim and smiling brightly at the student behind the front desk. "You know who we can talk to about student organizations?"

"Depends what you need to know," said the kid, profoundly unhappy to be at work on a Friday afternoon.

"Just looking for what clubs a guy might belong to," Blair said. "You have membership lists?"

"Um ... not really," the kid said. "I have a master list of all the official university clubs and stuff, but they keep their own membership information. We have numbers somewhere, for like statistical stuff -- so we can say X percent of students participate in extracurriculars -- but no names."

Blair heard the others getting frustrated behind him. "Well, maybe you can help us out. You know a kid named Landry? Kevin? Sophomore, physics major ... this ringing any bells?"

The kid knit her brow and looked hard at a spot in the middle distance. "Landry ... Landry ... I feel like I know that name. I don't know the guy, but -- maybe I've seen it? The newspaper, that's it. He writes for the paper."

"You can give us the names of the paper's staff, right? Or a faculty adviser?" The kid punched a few keys and handed them a printout. "Thank you very much," Blair said, and the little group turned and headed out again.

"This running around campus is getting to be a drag," Ramos grumbled as they filed into the empty newspaper office.

"I think the students feel the same way," Blair said absently. "Jeez, this place is a hole. How can they work with all this -- Jim, you okay?"

Jim had stopped for a moment at the door, but was now shaking his head and moving toward a large cork board on which were tacked sections of a few editorial pages; three candy bar wrappers declaring that they were not winning game pieces; a beat-up baseball cap and a hastily hand-lettered sign reading 'CAP OF GOOD HOPE (for emergency use after 2 am)'; a series of charts showing topics and the writers who had been assigned them; several photographs of young people, presumably the paper's staff, in various stages of inebriation; and another hand-lettered sign, hanging sideways, that said 'If you can read this, you fell asleep at your desk again. Go home.' Around the room were mangled copies of previous editions; typed drafts of articles with four colors of editing markups; pizza boxes and coffee cups, the age of whose contents was indeterminable; black and white eight-by-ten photographs with editorial doodles in black ink; and a large 'NO SMOKING' sign over the window, with the handwritten addition of an arrow pointing to the window itself and the words 'THE WORLD IS YOUR ASHTRAY.'

"It cannot have been this long since I was an undergraduate," Jim said.

"You were never this kind of undergrad, Jim," Blair assured him. "Come on. Here by the phone -- a contact list. Let's see if we can find someone who --"

"Excuse me," said a student, coming in with a hot pizza and two six-packs of Coke. "Um, can I help you with something?" Then his face brightened in recognition. "Hey, wait, I know you from somewhere," he said, putting his dinner down. "I've seen you. Yeah! You're the phony grad student, right?"

Blair sighed. "Close enough. Listen, we're here to --"

The kid turned to Jim. "Whoa, and that would make you --"

"We're trying to find one of your reporters," Megan interrupted, widening her eyes and putting a little pout in her voice. "We've looked every place we can think of, but we just can't seem to find him anywhere. Maybe you'll be able to help us out?" She lowered her chin so she could look at the kid through her eyelashes. "We'd really appreciate it. Kevin Landry?"

The kid sat heavily in a chair. "Huh. That's about the weirdest thing I've heard all day." He popped the top on one of his cans of soda and took a long swallow. "I'm Kevin Landry."

Blair took a step back. He looked at Ramos; he looked at Megan; he looked at Jim. Jim looked at him, with an expression on his face that seemed to say he didn't quite believe it could be that simple. It had sure never been that simple before, at any rate. "Seriously?" Blair asked.

"Yeah," the kid replied, with the tone of one assuming every kind of intellectual superiority over everyone else present. "That'd make you the Scarecrow, I guess," he went on, nodding to Blair. "We got a Tin Man and a Lion and a Dorothy --" Jim, Ramos, and Megan, respectively. "Nice. What can I do for you?"

"You can quit trying to be so cute," Jim said, pulling Kevin to his feet by one elbow. "Kevin Landry, you're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you do say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you at no charge. Do you understand?" Kevin set his jaw and nodded. "Good. Come on downtown with us. We need to have a little talk."

* * *

  
"Listen. Kevin. I know where you're coming from, man." Sandburg sat backwards in a chair in the interrogation room and spread his hands out in front of him. "There's a lot of things about a lot of institutions that need to change. But threatening them isn't the way to go about it. I mean, you say you'll beat a guy up if he doesn't apologize to you, and how sincere is the apology you get from that?" Kevin Landry looked at him and raised an eyebrow, but didn't speak. Sandburg hung his head in exasperation. "Look, buddy, at this point we care less about locking you up than we do about nothing blowing up tomorrow morning, okay? I just need you to tell me where you've planted your explosives, and I'm sure we can work something out with the DA. We just don't want anybody to get hurt." Kevin didn't answer him.

Outside the interrogation room, Jim turned to Simon. "I believe that's my cue," he said.

"Break a leg," Simon nodded. Jim reached for the doorknob. "Jim," Simon said sharply.

"Yes?"

"Figure of speech. Please don't break the kid's leg."

Jim grinned. "Aw, sir. You never let me have any fun." He scowled, opened the door roughly, and banged it closed behind him. "Okay, kid, listen up," he snarled. "My partner here has been pretty nice to you, and given you a couple of chances to turn yourself in and avoid spending actual time in an actual jail, and for some reason you haven't taken him up on those offers. Why's that?"

Kevin looked steadily at Jim. "I have the right to remain silent," he said.

"Do you want a lawyer? Is that what it's going to take to get you to talk? Because I promise you, Boy Wonder, we're going to get some answers out of you one way or another. We know all about how highly you esteem the Cascade Veterans League, pal, and we have documentation in your handwriting to prove it."

"I have the right to remain silent."

"We also know all about your harassment of the ROTC kids at Rainier. Some of our other detectives are taking their statements right now. Those'll go into evidence to show your propensity to violence. Know what that means? Less chance your parole'll be approved." Jim stalked around the table and leaned against the wall behind Kevin, where the kid would have to twist in his seat to see him.

He didn't twist, though; he folded his hands on the table and looked at them. "I have the right to remain silent."

"Yeah, you do. And that's okay. 'Cause we've got our bomb guys hunting around, and they'll find anything you've planted and have it defused way before the parade tomorrow. Probably about done with it already, actually." Jim wandered back around the table and sat next to Sandburg. "I mean, how hard can it be -- they're a professional bomb squad, and you're a nineteen-year-old kid with a chip on his shoulder." That earned him a glare. Sandburg nudged him under the table with his knee to keep going. "You thought the CVL was going to knuckle under and humiliate itself in public for that? For a disaffected college student? You don't know anything about military service, junior. Why should anybody listen to you?"

"It's not just me," Kevin muttered.

"What's that?" Sandburg asked.

"I'm not just thinking of myself, the way they are," Kevin said. "I want them to admit they're wrong. I do know. They're a bunch of self-centered pricks who smear other people's names for their own benefit."

"Like your dad?" Sandburg said gently.

Kevin nodded. "My dad, and lots of other people. Like you, right?" he said, looking at Jim. "I know you're not in it. I have their membership rolls. Is it because they left you for dead for a year and a half and then wanted to appropriate your name and your struggle for their own purposes of --"

"We're not here to talk about me, Kevin," Jim said, standing up. "You really want to live with the death and injury of hundreds of people on your head for the rest of your life? You have got to tell us where the bombs are _right now_."

"Therarnnyboms," Kevin mumbled.

"I beg your pardon?"

"There aren't any bombs." He coughed. "I was going to plant them in the middle of the night, after I figured you would have done your thing and decided the places were clean." All Kevin's right-to-remain-silent bravado was gone; he had looked scared and angry for a few minutes, but now he was just miserable. "I didn't want to tell you because I thought if I held out long enough maybe they'd give in and make the public apologies tomorrow anyway. If they were afraid I might blow something up. Since I was the only person who knew I wouldn't." He sat back in his chair, defeated. "They wouldn't have hurt too many people, anyway. They weren't going to have nails in them or anything. It was just supposed to look impressive and scare them. Damage their buildings -- fire, smoke damage, rewiring, some structural stuff."

"Okay." Sandburg smacked the table with his hand and stood up, turning the chair back around. "We're going to have someone come in and take your statement, Kevin, and talk to our captain about the charge. We can't let you just walk away from this. You understand?" Kevin nodded. "You want a soda or anything?" Kevin shook his head. "All right. Hang out here for a little bit."

Jim shut the door behind Sandburg when they were both back in the hall with Simon, and all three of them looked through the one-way glass at Kevin Landry, elbows on the table, head in his hands. "Nothing like misguided youth," Simon said, twisting his cigar in his fingers. "Rafe and Brown have been chatting with Colonel Davis while you've been babysitting."

"Yeah? Did the sonofa --"

"They got a DA in the room who managed to get the guy to plead to obstruction of justice," Simon said. "I'm still not sure how. I guess he told his people not to mention Landry to you two yesterday -- he was sure we'd be able to get rid of any bombs so nobody would be in danger, and he took the opportunity to try to nail Brandt. So there was some talk of what the charges would be like if his railroading turned out to be the proximate cause of casualties in the event something did blow up tomorrow because we didn't get around to the Landry kid in time. It was all very persuasive and I got about every third word of it. But Davis swallowed it like nobody's business. Signed the paper and took a hundred hours of community service -- and his work with the CVL doesn't count."

"Who _is_ this DA?" Jim burst out. "If we have lawyers like that representing the people in this town, why the hell aren't more criminals in jail?"

"Supply and demand, my friend," Sandburg said, squeezing his arm. "Listen, here's something that just occurred to me. If this thing is in the bag, there's still time to get a piece about it in tomorrow morning's paper, right? Plot to disrupt Veterans Day Parade thwarted -- so the hook is oh, someone was threatening the CVL, but the substance is a rational bomb-free presentation of the actual complaints Landry has against them. 'Cause it made a ton of sense, Simon, the way Landry senior was talking about it before. It's just when you take the step of starting to plant bombs that you start losing your audience."

"Sandburg, we're the police. We can't go calling reporters and giving them stories like that."

"You're the police. I, on the other hand, am still a civilian consultant. And, and, and," Sandburg went on hastily, when Simon took a deep breath that he probably planned to exhale at high volume, "as such, I can casually mention to Kevin Landry, when Connor goes back to take his statement, that this would make an interesting feature in tomorrow's Herald if he got the call in soon enough? He writes for the school paper, Simon -- he must know one or two people in the business."

Simon looked hard at Sandburg for a minute, then covered his eyes and pinched his temples between his thumb and middle finger. "Just get back in there and do your job, Sandburg," he said.

"Can I point the kid toward --"

"Did you hear me answer that question?"

"Uh ... no, sir."

"That's right. Now go." Sandburg grinned and hurried back to the interrogation room.

"So," Jim said, as he and Simon walked back to Simon's office. "Case closed, right?"

"Good work, Ellison," Simon nodded.

"So you won't need us tomorrow, will you."

Simon turned to look at him. "Jim --"

"We can actually _leave_ town, if that would make it easier for you."

"What would make it easier for me," Simon said, closing his office door, "would be if you two would just agree to march in the damn parade. I just don't think it needs to be as big a deal as you're making it."

"I don't want to make it any deal at all, Simon --"

"Jim. It's Veterans Day. It's a Veterans Day parade. It's not a VFW parade, or a CVL parade, or a US Army parade, or anything affiliated with anything except the city. And you are a veteran. You're a veteran who works for the city. Your appearing in the parade tomorrow won't be seen as endorsement of any group or any policy or belief. Your _not_ appearing in the parade tomorrow _will_ be seen as a number of things."

Jim leaned against the vent by the window. "I think you're mistaken," he said. "I think my marching will be seen as endorsement of the VFW, precisely because I'm a veteran. I can either be Ellison the veteran who's a cop or Ellison the cop who's a veteran, but not just Ellison who works for the city like everybody else."

"I'm sorry," Simon said, exhausted but not insincere. "I really am. But it's too late for that now. If you and Sandburg choose not to turn up tomorrow, you'll be on your own. I can't go to bat for you on this one."

Jim looked at Simon for a moment and tapped his finger against his knee. "Okay then." He stood up straight and went to the door. "Thanks. See ya."

"Jim." Jim stopped halfway through the door; Simon was seated on the corner of his desk. "Will we see you tomorrow?"

Jim looked out to the bullpen; Sandburg had just returned. "Good night, Simon," Jim said, and closed the door behind him.

"We outta here, Jim?" Sandburg asked, unnecessarily, grabbing his coat and following Jim to the elevator. "Megan's taking Kevin's statement. I don't figure she'll have any trouble getting the whole truth out of him. And I mentioned the thing about the newspaper, just casually, you know, and I think he took the hint. So that ought to be all set. What's up?"

Three more people had gotten on the elevator at the fourth floor. "We'll talk about it in the car," Jim said, trying not to sound too much like a parent whose kid had just made a spectacle of himself.

"Oookay." Sandburg stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, and kept quiet until he was in the truck with his seatbelt fastened. "You were saying?"

"We have to decide if we're going to march tomorrow or not," Jim said, pulling toward the garage exit.

"Didn't Simon say he needs us?"

"He would have needed us, if we hadn't cracked this thing and booked the Landry kid."

"Oh. So aren't we, ah, out of town?" Sandburg grinned and raised his eyebrows twice; Jim took a silent moment to be glad he'd never been prone to air quotes.

"It's too late for that, apparently. Since we only closed the case just now, we're obviously not out of town."

"But we could be! We could be on our way to the mountains right now. The mayor doesn't know we're not. Didn't Simon say he wouldn't call us back?"

"He says he can't force us to go, but it's between us and the mayor's office."

"Man."

"Yeah."

Sandburg sat quietly for several blocks; when Jim parked the truck, he got out and closed and locked the passenger-side door almost mechanically. "Jim," he said, "the guy, whatshisname, who gave us Landry -- he's not a member of CVL either, is he?"

"I don't know. I guess maybe not." Jim hit the button for the elevator and cocked his head in thought. "I don't think Rafe and Brown said. They talked to a few different people, though."

"Right, right, but remember how Landry talked -- it didn't sound like he was the only guy who wasn't pleased with the organization. So there might be a handful of people who aren't too excited about marching in the parade tomorrow and appearing to support these organizations in particular, as opposed to veterans in general."

"What's your point, Chief?" Jim asked as Sandburg unlocked the loft door.

"Lemme make a couple of calls. Is Landry in the book?"

* * *

  
"Ellison. Sandburg. Glad you could join us." The Major Crime gang, all in uniform with the exception of Megan and Blair, gathered at the corner of 12th and Park, at the north end of the parade route.

"We're actually just here to say good morning, Simon," Blair said, holding his sunglasses between his teeth as he pulled back his hair. "Everybody feeling good, now that the pressure's off?"

"What do you mean?" Megan asked. "You're not leaving now you've been here, are you?"

"Nah." Jim slid his hands into his pockets. "We're meeting some people in a few minutes."

"To be scrupulously correct," Blair added, putting his sunglasses back on and wrapping his scarf tightly, "Jim is meeting some people. I'm here to march with you guys, actually. Who has some coffee for me?"

"What's going on, Ellison?" Brown asked.

"Some things Simon said clicked when we got home last night," Jim explained. "Seems I'm here simply as a veteran, not endorsing any particular group or organization. So Sandburg called around and rustled up some other veterans who don't care to endorse any particular group, and we're going to march together."

"As a group." Megan grinned.

"Laugh it up, Connor," Jim said, poking her with his elbow. "We're the most unorganized group here. Just a bunch of orphan vets."

"Here comes some of your posse, Jim," Blair said. Coming up the block was a cluster of men in dark business suits; a few had flag lapel pins, but mostly they were unadorned. Besides Ben Landry, there were seven or eight guys Blair didn't recognize. Right on their heels were three women he'd talked into appearing, and just a few minutes later Jerry Brandt turned up with a group of six men and women behind him.

"This isn't a bad idea, Ellison," Simon said as the parade organizers started to call to the assembled public servants through megaphones. "I knew you'd come up with something when I spoke to you yesterday evening."

"Did you, sir?" Jim said, eyebrow raised good-naturedly.

"Absolutely. Management skills and motivation. That's why they pay me the big bucks." Simon grinned around his cigar and clapped Jim on the shoulder. "See you later."

"See you later," Jim nodded. "Have fun without me, everybody." He tugged on a curl of Blair's hair and tapped his cheek lightly with the flat of his hand. "See you on the flip side. We'll grab lunch on the way home." Jim stepped away to walk with the other unaffiliated veterans.

"So, how should we form up, guys?" Blair said, turning back to the Major Crime group. How many of us are there --" He had started to count heads when Simon glared at him. "What?"

"Nobody's _forming up_, Sandburg. This isn't the high school band."

Blair looked around at the faces of his co-workers. Everyone was stifling laughter, except Megan, who shrugged. "Do we even step in time?"

The rest of the team gave up their struggles and laughed out loud. "Sandburg," said Brown, "have I ever told you how glad I am you're a part of this team?" He pressed a hand to his side, taking a moment to catch his breath. "Picking on Rafe was never as much fun as picking on you."

"You've added years to our lives, buddy," Ramos agreed with a grin.

"You're welcome," Blair smiled. "So, seriously -- do we just sort of ... go?"

"Yep," Simon nodded, crushing his cigar against the edge of a wastebasket and dropping the butt inside. "Ready?"

"Maybe I won't put this in my paper," Blair muttered to Megan as they stuck their hands in their pockets and set off along the parade route. "Get everybody together in uniform and wave the colors and stuff, and then all they do is take a walk? Some ritual."

Blair could feel Jim looking over at him while he rinsed the lunch dishes and set them to dry. He knew it was because he was so attuned to Jim's mood and presence, but he couldn't quite convince himself it wasn't because the heat of Jim's gaze was like a beam of fire. For the fifth time, he pushed a lock of hair off his forehead and behind his ear; the crisp breeze during the parade had played havoc with his ponytail. Jim came to stand behind him at the sink. "Just let it go," he murmured, setting his hands on Blair's shoulders and nipping gently at his neck. "You know if you tie it back it'll just come out again." He nipped again, harder. "Might as well turn it loose."

Blair tipped his head to the side and hummed for a second. "But it's so much trouble when it's loose. Messy. Gets in the way." He twisted to face Jim for a brief kiss.

"I know," Jim whispered. "I also happen to think it looks better." He grinned and pulled the tie out of Blair's curls.

"You're not the one who has to deal with it," Blair said, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"Of course I am. You shed all over the place. You don't think I find your hair stuck to my pillow, in all my sweaters, everywhere?" Jim tightened his grip. "But I put up with it, because I love you."

"Oh, well, thank goodness for that," Blair smiled, pulling Jim in for a lingering kiss, slow and smooth and patient.

"Plans for the rest of the day?" Jim asked when they pulled apart.

"Work," Blair answered frankly, turning back to finish with the dishes. Jim started drying the ones in the rack. "I have to tighten up that one section, you heard Johansen say so on Tuesday, and I have to find citations for it. Or, you know, at least I'll have to go through some sources one more time to make sure they don't flat-out contradict the point." He grinned. "How much would that suck."

"It would suck a lot." Jim dried and stacked the last plate, then stepped back and scratched his neck. "Was that really for real, Chief?"

"Was what really --"

"What you were saying the other night, when we got home. About the sense of vengeance?" Jim looked at him again, faintly irritated. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing," Blair said, trying to iron out his surprised smile. Memo to self, he thought. Jim takes affirmative interest in implications of being a Sentinel. Mark calendar. "Yeah, of course it was for real, Jim. Did you think I was making it up?"

"I didn't think you were making up the idea," Jim said, following Blair into the study to fetch the books he'd need. "But it's possible you made up having found the documentation for it. I know you wanted to win."

Blair gave Jim's shoulder a friendly shove and kissed him quickly. "Of course it was for real," he repeated. "The book's right there, the one with the library tag on it." Jim picked up the book and knit his brow as he read the jacket notes. "Come on. I'm going to sit on the balcony." He tugged at Jim's collar.

"It's fifty degrees outside."

Blair sighed and pulled Jim along with him anyway. "Number one, fifty degrees isn't that cold. Number two, it's warmed up since this morning. And it won't be long before it really is too cold to go outside on purpose. Come on. I'll even leave my hair down, like you said, instead of tying it back again."

Jim raised an eyebrow and slid his hand into Blair's, twisting their fingers together. "It'll get in your face," he said with a smile.

"You'll be up to your wrists in it in no time," Blair laughed. He left the sliding door half-open behind them. "I'm not worried."

"Then you won't get any reading done," Jim said, settling into his deck chair as Blair got comfortable in his own and opened his first text. "I'll distract you from your work." He reached over and pulled on a curl to prove his point.

"You never know, Ellison," Blair said, grinning and turning his head to give Jim better access, but not setting the book aside. "I might distract you from yours."

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Slash Virtual Season](http://www.squidge.org/5senses).


End file.
